


Take me, I'm alive.

by prurient (brokenbeauty)



Series: Make me wanna die [1]
Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 02:37:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8472274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenbeauty/pseuds/prurient
Summary: Isn't love just hate looking in a funhouse mirror?





	

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing with my vacation time. So I know that the DMMd fandom is kind of dead, but this fic idea grew on me and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote is down. Because there is not ONE fic about Koujaku and Noiz not being in an established relationship and having sex while they still hate each other, I decided to write it! It was PWP and then feelings crept in I'm sorry. It's 5 am and I'm a little weird/
> 
>  
> 
> Title is from 'Make Me Wanna Die', by The Pretty Reckless, which is also good mood music for this story, btw.

“…Fuck.”

 

The curse involuntarily leaves Noiz’s lips, along with the blood spatter out his nose and onto his cheek. The edges of his vision are beginning to tinge an ugly maroon, and so, he suspects, are sundry areas on his body that have taken the worst of the beating. His limbs had refused to move, after a while, and he’d let them be, just vaguely considering that he’d have to look up a way to get them back in working condition when he gets out of here.

 

 _If_ he gets out of here.

 

For now, though, he just smirks up at them, these faceless creatures that he does not understand—understands all too well.

 

“Is that all you’ve got?”

 

And he zones out again as they yell meaningless threats up close and personal before laying into him with renewed vigor.

 

It had never been fair, this three-on-one ambush in a nameless back alley. But then again, the Maslowian principal stated that Noiz wasn’t exactly in an ideal position to dwell on the intricacies of fairness and the lack thereof, not if he couldn’t graduate from even the lowermost tier of his pyramid. Not that he cares to dwell, either, as far is it concerns him, probably will lose what remains of his sanity if he sits down and weighs out every wrong against his pitiful share of right.

 

And who does the classification, anyway? Into wrong and right, black and white? The lines are starting to blur even as his world begins to flicker out of focus, spot with black, so it is _right_ to feel disappointment when the dull impact of the hits abruptly ceases and he sinks to the ground? Is it _wrong_ to feel only tired irritation when he looks into the crimson gaze of the intervener?

 

He closes his eyes.

 

“Who the fuck asked you to butt in, old man?”

 

Even through the viscosity swimming in his ears, his voice sounds acerbic when he finally manages to force it out to direct at Koujaku.

 

_And thank fuck for it._

“Well, I was _going_ to ask if you were alright, but it looks like the little brawl there hasn’t injured your tongue at all.”

 

Noiz just shoots him a deadpan look from where is slumped against the wall. He makes to push off of it, maybe shove into Koujaku’s shoulder on his way, but the carmine skirting the edges of his vision threatens to close in, fade to black when he tries, and it makes him stumble and pitch forward before he can take two steps.

 

“Woah, easy there.”

 

He doesn’t understand, not until that brusque voice comes through to him, exactly _what_ has kept him from falling flat on his face. When he does, though, he jerks away violently from Koujaku’s grasp. The sudden motion leaves his vision swimming annoyingly, but he manages not to embarrass himself again, bracing a hand against the wall for support and training his gaze at a spot on the grimy floor of the alleyway to focus it. “Nice save there, old man. Sure your arthritic bones aren’t creaking from all the effort?”

 

He sneaks a glance at Koujaku then, wanting to gauge how close he is to being socked one in the face, and finds him pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. Breathing in, breathing out.

 

“Gratefulness might be too big a word for your Rhyme-addled wits to comprehend, brat, but you’d do well to learn it.”

 

Noiz actually laughs out loud. 

He’s never been fucking _grateful_ to anyone in his life, and he isn’t about to start with an old coot whose hair is longer than his dick.

 

“Posh words, grandpa. Looks like _someone’s_ mother worked hard on their upbringing—fail as she might have.”

 

Koujaku’s eyes fly open at that, the red in them glinting dangerously, and Noiz takes that incentive to continue, mouth widening into a broad smirk.

 

“Why so silent, old man? Was she _pretty?_ Did you wanna—,”

 

And before Noiz knows it, before he can even finish that sentence, he’s flying backwards, letting out an involuntary gasp as all the air is knocked out of his lungs from the impact of concrete against his back.

 

“You _fucking—!”_ Koujaku is pinning him against the wall, now, holding him an inch off the ground like he weighs nothing at all, and something rushes heady and strong through Noiz’s veins. “Don’t you _dare_ talk about my mother.”

 

“Oh? Or what? What’ll you do, old man?” Something is singing in Noiz’s blood, rising to the bait of Koujaku’s flashing eyes, making him push and push and _push_ until he snaps. “Whack me one with your walking sti—,”

 

He’s cut off by a blunt blow right to his jaw, the rust-and-salt of blood filling his mouth.

 

“Shut. The _fuck_ up.”

 

Noiz smirks. Then he rears back and spits right in Koujaku’s face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next time he sees Koujaku, it’s barely a week later, just when his wounds have finished scabbing over and the ugly blotches of purple at his jaw have begun to yellow and fade. Noiz is, unsurprisingly, in another fight, and he actually has the upper hand this time. A sick amusement plays in his chest as he watches his opponent crumble against his relentless onslaught of punches, and he’s damn near finishing it off when the old man decides to swoop in _again,_ all knight-in-shining armor.

 

“Hey— _oi,_ cut it out, you two— _you?”_

Noiz is expecting the restraining arm across his chest, and is quick to shake it off. He is expecting the shove backwards, and had braced himself for it. What he _isn’t_ expecting is the way Koujaku’s gaze darts away from him as soon as the first shock of recognition passes. It throws Noiz off, but he chooses to ignore it in favor of venting his annoyance at the kimono-clad figure in front of him.

 

“And why the _fuck_ are you here, old man?”

 

“This is Benishigure territory, brat. I should fuck you up for trespassing and _then_ picking a fight with one of my members.”

 

The flare of irritation that always smolders so near the surface when Koujaku is around licks at Noiz’s chest, exacerbated by the other’s inherent belief that he is superior to Noiz in every way possible which practically oozes out of his pores, rubbing him in all the wrong ways. He cocks his head back, smirks.

 

“Heh. You’re holding back because you think I can’t take you? _Bring it,_ grandpa.”

 

Koujaku snorts, an honest-to-god disbelieving snort, and grabs Noiz by the arm.

 

“Don’t get cocky, brat. I could take you on in my sleep. But that’s beside the point. I— Uh…”

 

Koujaku hesitates, and Noiz, fed up with this game of charades already, clicks his tongue. He’s spoiling for a fight, and he _will_ make this smug bastard give it to him.

 

“Even considering your age, isn’t it a bit too early for you to be losing control of your verbal facilities? Should I arrange a paramedic?”

 

Noiz’s eyebrow quirks inadvertently when Koujaku doesn’t rise to the bait, instead avoiding his gaze and scratching at the back of his neck.

 

“Look, brat, I don’t want to get into a fight with you, seeing as I’ve… when you were already injured, I—,”

 

". . . . . . . . . ."

 

Noiz simply gawks at him. Please, for the love of all the gods he has never prayed to, let the old man not be getting at what Noiz _thinks_ he’s getting at.

 

“Just… I’m sorry. I guess.”

 

For a moment, Noiz’s mind is blank. _Tabula rasa._ And then an emotion he’s never felt before, black and boiling as molten tar, bubbles up in the pit of his stomach.

 

_Anger._

Before he knows it, his hand is coming up, back, and then flying forward full-force to connect with Koujaku’s face.

 

_Don’t fucking apologize._

He turns away, breaks into a run as Koujaku simply rubs at his face in disbelief.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The last thing Noiz wants is to see Koujaku again, so naturally he runs into him at every possible opportunity. Be it information brokering or even the occasional Rhyme match he goes out to see, more often than not a discomfiting crimson will skirt the edges of his vision, leaving him unsure if he’s seeing things and uncomfortably on edge.

 

All things considered, therefore, it’s a _pretty fucking stupid_ move to infringe upon the old man’s home territory by going to plague Aoba about joining his Rhyme team again so soon after… well, _that._ But it’s a Tuesday morning, he’s already sold off the information about Usui’s whereabouts to the highest bidder, and his team’s been coming up with a severe lack of new potential lately. In other words, he’s got nothing better to do, and he figures it’s as good a time as any to take a hike down the well-worn paths of Midorijima to Junk Shop Heibon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, his timing couldn’t have been worse.

 

As a tinkling of bells and Aoba’s flustered yells herald his exit from the shop, a smirk plays at Noiz’s lips. It had been extraordinarily refreshing, messing with him. Maybe he _should_ make an effort sometimes, do it more often…

 

"...the fuck are you doing here?”

 

Ah.

 

_Fuck._

Noiz’s smirk melts off his lips like the last lingering traces of ice cream on a stick at the sound of that obnoxiously familiar voice from across the street. “Is _minding your own damn business_ not something they teach you in schools over here?”

 

He resolutely keeps his eyes fixed on a flashy neon sign advertising services of questionable repute as he mutters out his response, unwilling to look at the advancing Koujaku.

 

“It makes it my damn business if you’re walking out of the shop my best friend works at when I’ve warned you about harassing him!”

 

Noiz snorts, line of sight unintentionally landing on Koujaku. “Knock it off, old man. Aoba isn’t one of your damsels in distress. He doesn’t need a withered old prune protecting him.”

 

Koujaku flushes.

 

“That’s not—,” he begins, but Noiz, amusement reawakening at the red that has suddenly tinted in Koujaku’s cheeks, cuts him off. It’s wild, _wild_ speculation, a total shot in the dark, but if this is Koujaku’s weak point—

 

“Or— _don’t tell me,_ gramps—you _want_ him to be?”

 

He barely has time to gloat over the way Koujaku’s face goes an ugly shade of purple before his head is snapping back and he distantly hears a hollow-sounding crunch that is _definitely_ his nose shattering.

 

_Bingo._

“What, impotent-dick old man? Just pissy ‘cause you haven’t been able to get it up for a girl after Aoba?”

 

He dodges the next hit Koujaku levels at his solar plexus, wiping off what he can of the blood gushing freely down his face before he kicks low, going for Koujaku’s ankles. He snickers when he knocks them out from under him, making him stumble and land flat on his ass.

 

“…Ngh!”

 

Before Koujaku has time to do anything more than glare, Noiz moves to straddle him, flashing him a quick grin before punching him square in the face.

 

“Who the fuck do you think you are, old man?”

 

And before he knows it, the black-tar is melting viscous in his stomach again and he lets himself sink into it as he _hits,_ feels the crack of skin, bone, cartilage splintering, giving way in the face of his assault—he hates this, _hates_ this—but then, _what_ is it he hates again?

 

His vision is still swirling black-green when his head jerks back a second time and he’s sent sprawling, Koujaku looming over him, face bloodied and scowling as he knocks the breath out of Noiz with a well-placed knee to the stomach. Before Noiz can buck wildly to get him the _fuck_ off of himself, throw him off and regain the upper hand, a grating voice, _way_ too close for comfort, makes him freeze in his tracks.

 

“You little _fuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrs!”_

“…Akushima, motherfuck.”

 

Koujaku stills above him, too, for a split second, cursing. Fist still poised in midair. And then he’s on his feet, and before Noiz can resist, he’s being seized by the wrist and dragged off into the nearest back alley, in, in, in.

 

And they run.

 

They run, twisting, weaving, doubling back until even Noiz’s meticulous memorization of Midorijima’s street plans is beginning to fail him and Akushima’s hollering has subsided into the safety of distance.

 

As soon as they break pace, Noiz wrenches his arm put of Koujaku’s grasp, turning away, leaning against the wall to pant, and if he were anyone vaguely normal, he’d be clutching at his side from the bruising and the stitches. As it is, it’s getting hard to breathe, and he hopes Koujaku will leave soon so he can succumb to the dizziness he feels flitting somewhere in the back of his head.

 

But the tail-end of that thought is lost somewhere, left suspended in the empty air as his body flies back into the wall, head thudding dully against it, the featureless concrete bracing him so that he looks straight into Koujaku’s eyes, fiery with the thrill of an actual spar.

 

“Forget what just happened between us. Everything you know— _think_ you know.”

 

Noiz tilts his head to the side at Koujaku’s snarl, pushing away the gray threatening to close in on his vision so that he can level the full weight of his contempt at the older man.

 

“Now why would I want to do that? I’m sure Aoba would be _very—,”_

_Interested,_ he wants to say,  but one of Koujaku’s hands have migrated to his throat, bearing down hard enough to make Noiz’s voice cut off in a choked gurgle—a warning in no uncertain terms.

 

“. . . I kissed him, you know,” he gasps out as soon as he can breathe again. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Koujaku this, _what_ is possessing him to spit the words out; except that maybe he revels in the dangerous, _different kind of dangerous,_ almost _hungry_ light that fills Koujaku’s eyes, at once a rebuff and unless he is very much mistaken, a demand for more. Wants to see the manic flame dancing in those eyes burn even brighter, wants to be knocked unconscious and not _think_ for a while, _wants—_ “Earlier today. In the shop. It felt surprisingly good. Light. Like— _mph!”_

He’d though he was well on his way to another brawl in the middle of the street with that statement, body tensing in anticipation of it. But what cuts him off this time isn’t a fist to the face, a knee to the diaphragm.

 

It’s Koujaku’s lips.

 

A hand at his chin, digging in hard enough for even him to register the pressure of it. Their bodies, flush against each other, keeping Noiz pinned up against the wall behind him. And Koujaku’s lips.

These are the only things Noiz registers, even after the first split-second of shock fades and his own lips curve up into a smirk against Koujaku’s, eyes fluttering closed.

 

_So he’s the same._

 

And his body goes limp with the relief of it, because he knows what comes next. Because when Koujaku fucks him up against the alleyway, leaves him to slump on the ground as he walks away in the aftermath, Noiz will _finally_ be able to let go of the discomfiting memory which his mind insists on hanging on to; of Koujaku’s troubled, flustered face as he’d mouthed the words no one had said to him in a long, long time.

 

And so he leaves off thinking, letting his instincts guide him as he buries his hands in Koujaku’s hair, pulls roughly at the strands he supposes should be silky to touch. Opens his mouth to the one covering his intently.

 

And _oh,_ Koujaku’s mouth.

 

Koujaku kisses like he fights, vicious, deep, all offense and entirely focused. Noiz hates to admit it, even to himself, but he can kind of see what all the women hounding Koujaku have to swoon over. Koujaku lets out a hiss into the kiss when he feels Noiz yank at his hair, but doesn’t let up one bit, forcing Noiz’s lips open with his own, letting his tongue run over every crevice of his mouth.

 

And Noiz shivers, because he’s kissing Koujaku. He’s _kissing_ Koujaku, and he swears on every gasping inhale that no sex he’s ever had has felt as intimate as the slick slide of their tongues together. It's stealing his breath from his lungs, his secrets from his lips, and laying him out bare for Koujaku’s scrutiny.

 

And he hates it.

 

He can _swear_ he hates it.

 

Hates Koujaku more than anything.

 

And then it’s over, Koujaku has pulled back, and Noiz is staring glassy-eyed at the line of saliva connecting their lips until he leans in again, and Noiz’s entire body tenses.

 

“Don’t ever fucking touch Aoba again.”

 

And before Noiz even realizes that, _yeah, Koujaku just brushed past his lips to his ear,_ the older man is reinforcing his threat with a harsh bite to Noiz’s ear—even that blunt pressure making him shiver—and stepping away from him, turning his back.

 

Right. _Right._

_Aoba._

Noiz’s knees give out.

 

He’d like to say he maintains complete composure, that he spits out an insult or five into Koujaku’s face right after he pulls away, but the truth is that he’s weak to that smarmy bastard’s mouth and all the more pissed off for it. So he sinks to the surface of the street, and it’s a while before it registers that Koujaku has no intention of bending him over the nearest flat surface and showing him _exactly_ how much he hates him. Has no intention of feeding into Noiz’s algorithm how he wants him to—and, _fuck—_ trust stupid old men to make things difficult for him.

 

“Oi, old man. Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

 

He dislikes difficulty. He dislikes Koujaku. And he especially dislikes the way his voice comes out, breathless and fucked-out. It does the job, though, as the retreating, kimono-clad back stalls.

 

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you that a real man always finishes what he starts?”

 

Koujaku visibly stiffens, and it just spurs Noiz on as he gets to his feet, closing the distance between them, gait awkward with every step rubbing up against the hardness building between his legs. “Or are you telling me that the whole seppuku-samurai act is just to get you laid?”

 

He’s right behind him, now, and Koujaku flinches when Noiz turns him around with a rough hand to his shoulder.

 

“Tell you what,” and their faces are close, _close_ now and Koujaku is making to back away but Noiz stops him with a hand fisted in his hair. “It’ll never fucking work on the person you want it to.”

 

And there it is, the dangerous flash Noiz had wanted to see in Koujaku’s eyes, the one that warns him to back off _right the fuck now or else._

So naturally Noiz draws closer, pushes further.

 

“So how about this,” he darts his tongue out to lick at a trail of blood snaking its way out of Koujaku’s mouth, smirking as he shudders. “You take what you can _get.”_

For a moment, Noiz almost thinks he sights hesitation in the grip of Koujaku’s hand as it comes up to dislodge Noiz’s from his shoulder, but then it’s gone and Koujaku has an iron-grip on his wrist.

 

“Let go of me, brat. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

 

“Oh?” Noiz digs an expert finger into the acupressure point on the back of Koujaku’s hand, moving in closer when he snarls in pain and snatches his hand away, makes as if to kiss him. “I think I do.”

 

And then, just as Koujaku is tensing up, forgetting to pull away, he splits his lip right open with a vicious bite to it.

 

“ _Tsk—!”_

For a moment, Koujaku flinches away, wincing, and Noiz braces himself for the punch he feels coming. But then he just stares. Stares fixedly, blood streaming a scarlet rivulet down his chin, him not even bothering to wipe it away. Something builds in his eyes, smolders, and then a hot mouth is covering his own, and _oh._

_Oh,_ Koujaku’s mouth.

 

He can taste the copper-tang of blood in it, mixed in with their saliva, tingeing the kiss seven shades of desperation; all with a spicy, smoky undertone— _tobacco?_ – that makes Noiz’s hips rut up into the solid pressure against them as saliva escapes where their mouths are joined and drips down his chin.  

 

They separate with a gasp that could have come from either or both of them, and only when Noiz practically yanks Koujaku away by the hair so he can _breathe._ He uses this opportunity to look over Koujaku with some satisfaction, properly take in his clouded eyes, his swollen lips, the bruises just starting to show at his cheek as they both gasp for breath, staring each other down.

 

Koujaku puts up with it for a heartbeat before he lunges for Noiz again, growling low in his ear.

 

“Don’t fucking blame me if you can’t walk after this.”

 

Noiz responds to the full-body shiver Koujaku’s words elicit in him the only way he knows to. “. . . Hurry it up, old man. Does it really take you that long to get it up? Just pretend I’m Aoba, I don’t care.”

 

Koujaku just goes for Noiz’s lips, his throat, in reply, and the younger man thrills in anticipation, walking them off to the side, walking them off to the side and back until he’s up against the wall again. He tears his mouth away from Koujaku’s then, because _it’s making him fucking dizzy_ and he needs to focus on untying the obi on the _damn stupid kimono_ Koujaku insists on wearing.

 

Just when he’s well on his way to tugging it loose, though, Koujaku’s hands grab his, mouth leaving his neck.

 

“Not here.”

 

“Hm?” Noiz’s hands, disregarding Koujaku’s resistance, continue to pull at his obi until he _tsks_ under his breath and forcibly yanks Noiz’s arm away.

 

“I _said,_ not here. Come on.” Koujaku uses the leverage he has on Noiz’s arm to dislodge him from his position against the wall, try and lead him along.

 

“Save it, old man.” Noiz spits, twisting his arm free. “I’m not a girl.”

 

Koujaku scowls at him.

 

“And thank mercy for that. That shitty attitude of yours would be even less appealing on a girl.” He easily sidesteps as Noiz makes a grab for him, hoping to put a quick end to this pointless discussion, and continues. “There’s a difference between treating someone like a girl and simply having class.”

 

And there it is again, that black-tar feeling melting his insides, scorching at him, sliding down his limbs until all he can see it the red of the anger that no one but Koujaku can inspire in him. Before he can act on it, though, before he can punch Koujaku or kiss him or both, he grabs Noiz’s arm, twists it behind his back until he feels the warning pressure before a dislocated shoulder. “And I, for one, am not fucking _anyone_ in a dirty alleyway where it is _illegal_ and the chances of catching an STD are ten to one.”

 

Noiz wants to struggle against him, _fuck_ the danger of dislocating his shoulder and aim a bone-shattering kick at his fucking face if he can get away; but it is undeniable that he _can’t_ get away, that Koujaku has the advantage in terms of sheer brute strength.

 

That the realization sends a thrill of excitement down his spine.

 

“Fuck you, old man.”

 

Koujaku just grins that infuriating, cocky grin that makes women cream and Noiz want to sock him one for his overconfidence.

 

“You want me that bad?” And although he smirks as he says it, shoving Noiz forward, releasing his hold on him so he stumbles, his voice is low, heated.

 

“. . .Let’s go already.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The room Noiz consequently finds himself in is tiny, hidden away inside a dilapidated building up north from where they’d been standing. Koujaku doesn’t answer him when he asks how he knows about it, but that and any other considerations are quickly driven from his mind once Koujaku’s mouth finds his again.

 

And he’s on the bed now, Noiz vaguely recalls Koujaku ripping his beanie off his head before throwing him onto it, memory fuzzing in the face of Koujaku’s deep, searching kisses— _lover’s kisses,_ he realizes with a shudder, because he’s been around the block a fair few times, but none of the kisses he’s had before can compare. Come even _close._

Koujaku kisses him like he means it, like he wants to steal every single breath Noiz has left, and it pisses him _off._

 

So he pushes Koujaku’s head away, glares when he smirks at him and leans down to nip at his neck—none too gently, Noiz can tell, but he needs more, _more._

“That all you’ve got, old man?” he snarls, yanks something vicious at Koujaku’s hair. “Come on, bite me _harder.”_

 

And it’s _good,_ Koujaku’s hiss of pain, the intensification of the pressure at his throat, but it’s not _enough,_ and— “Harder, you fucking _pussy.”_

What he feels next is the most peculiar, most bizzarely arousing sensation he’s ever come across in his very limited experience—the feeling of something sliding into—not across, but _into—_ his skin, and he cries out sharp in his throat.

 

And then Koujaku is pulling back, blood spatter staining his lips, and Noiz realizes. Less from the actual, physical evidence, and more from the uncertainty flickering in Koujaku’s expression which morphs into pure, unadulterated _bloodlust_ when he catches sight of Noiz’s face. He ducks his head down again, _sucks_ at the spot where he’s broken skin, and Noiz _moans._

Because even he can feel the wild throb of his pulse beating under Koujaku’s tongue at the point of abrasion, even he can feel—or some semblance thereof—the suction there.

 

“Keep talking and I’ll fucking bite it off.”

 

Noiz doesn’t need to crane his head down, when Koujaku murmurs against his skin, to see the ugly, bloodied purple-carmine that has bloomed at the pulse point in his neck—it is written all over Koujaku’s face when tilts his head up a second time, something primal and not quite human playing in his eyes, making his low words all the more rife with threat..

 

“Just you fucking try it.” Noiz responds by snaking his hands over to Koujaku’s back and _fucking finally_ untying that damn obi, sliding it off his body in one smooth motion, leaving his kimono to hang open on either side of them. He arches up, then, sucks bite marks into Koujaku’s chest, sinking his teeth in on just that side of too much. Koujaku gasps, forces Noiz’s head away when he uses teeth at his nipple, hands in his hair fisted so tight Noiz _feels_ the pull of it.

 

“What, old man? Can’t handle it?” Noiz snickers, surges forward to bite again despite Koujaku’s restraining hands. “One would think that having the majority of a nipple tattooed over would mean that you wouldn’t scream like a girl every time someone gave it a little attention.”

 

For a moment, Koujaku looks like he’s in pain. A shadow, different from simple lust or anger passes over his face, and Noiz catches it—catches it and shoves it to the back of his mind because he, somehow, _knows_ that look.

 

And then it’s gone, and Koujaku is surging forward to occupy Noiz’s mouth before it can say anything untoward, and _oh, what_ was Noiz thinking about again? Because the only thing he’s capable of right now, with Koujaku’s tongue in his mouth and his hands unbuttoning his shirt with practiced ease, is skirting his hands up Koujaku’s arms to his shoulders, pushing at the fabric of his kimono until it slides off his shoulders, Koujaku taking it off and tossing it to the floor with a soft _fwump_ while Noiz tugs at the bandages around his torse until they unravel.

 

He pulls back, then, from Koujaku’s kisses that threaten to intoxicate him, from his hands that pinch and pull and scratch in all the right ways, to get a good look at his body, and _fuck_ if Noiz wasn’t hard in his pants before he is now. Without the trimming-down of the kimono, Koujaku’s body seems somehow… unrestrained. Bulkier, with the predatory grace of some large animal. Like it could wreak some serious damage and Noiz would be more than okay with it.

 

And that was without taking into consideration his tattoos.

 

Noiz had briefly considered, in the past, getting some of his own, had thought that maybe a needle driving into his unresponsive flesh would kindle some semblance of sensation in it, but in the end, there had been nothing he had cared for enough to document on his body.

 

But _Koujaku._

Koujaku is a different story, this _damn sexy bastard,_ Noiz’s mouth waters as he rakes his eyes down the bold black swirls decorating the entire right side of his body. God, he wants to _lick_ them. Bite them. Make them bleed.

 

He wonders if Koujaku’s blood will run hot under his tongue. Will taste as fiery as his eyes.

 

And then Koujaku is hauling him up, making short work of his shirt, then pulling his undershirt up and off. He only licks his lips when he sights the flash of silver through his nipples, his navel, and lunges. Bites down on Noiz’s nipple _hard,_ smirks when he whimpers and arches up into it.

 

“Brats like you shouldn’t get ahead of themselves,” he unbuckles Noiz’s belt, shoves his trousers and boxers down with little ceremony—

 

—and stops short.

 

“. . . No fucking way,” he breathes out, gaze stuck on Noiz’s cock, hard and just beginning to flush at the tip.

 

At the metal adorning it.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t have taken you for some sort of yakuza with all those tattoos, so at least we’re both surprised.”

 

And there it is again. When Noiz trails a hand over his tattoos, Koujaku flinches like it physically pains him, and slaps his hand away.

 

“I’m not—tch.” Koujaku shakes his head and the expression is gone, hand travelling to Noiz’s throat again, fingers flexing like he’d love nothing more than to give it a good squeeze right then and there. “. . .Just shut your mouth or I’ll make you.”

 

A part of Noiz wants to ask, to push and prod at the scars until they reopen and spill what has been festering inside them, but he knows it’ll only earn him another black eye and possible sexual frustration into the bargain. So he moves his hand to tug lazily at his own cock, regaling Koujaku with his best apathetic stare.

 

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d just _get on with it,_ old man. Or should I get the Viagra from your back pocket?”

 

And _really,_ Noiz thinks, it’s almost too easy as his own hand on his cock is pried away, replaced by a bigger one—when did he get his gloves off?—and another vicious bite to his neck that sends shivers up his spine with how the blood oozes out of it. Koujaku’s hand should be rougher that his, he figures, from all the scars on it, but he can’t _feel_ it and that irritates him more than it should. So he leans up to whisper in Koujaku’s ear, hand at the front of his pants, palming him hard through his jeans.

 

“Fucking pull on them, you squeamish old _prude.”_

Koujaku stiffens. And then Noiz’s head flies back onto the sheets, mouth open in a soundless moan as he yanks roughly on his frenum ladder while digging his thumb into the slit.

 

“You fucking brat—,” Koujaku’s voice sounds rough as he chooses to toy with the apadravya this time, sending muted shocks of electricity up Noiz’s spine. “Don’t— _fucking_ underestimate me.”

 

And Noiz almost wants to laugh, _would_ have laughed if his vision hadn’t been clouding over with _want_ and his breath coming choppy and irregular. As it is, though, he settles for shooting Koujaku a _yeah? Then fucking show me_ that he hopes to all hell doesn’t sound as breathy to Koujaku as it does to himself.

 

But then Koujaku is kissing him again— _be careful I don’t rip them right out—_ and every other sentience fleets to air as he pushes inside Noiz’s mouth with his tongue, his hips grinding down into Noiz’s, and Noiz pushes _back,_ dirty trick for dirty trick; and his hands are unclasping Koujaku’s damn neck brace, pulling his hairpin free from when it’s binding his hair and then going down, _down_ to unbutton, unzip, push away as if possessed. Because oh, fuck, Noiz _wants,_ has wanted ever since Koujaku first hinted that he could have it, and Koujaku’s hand working rough and fast over his cock is the final fucking straw. He doesn’t _care anymore, needs Koujaku inside him and fuck prep just shove it in already._

He only realizes that his mouth has detached from Koujaku’s, that saliva is smearing across his chin, and that he’s spoken those last few thoughts out loud when Koujaku’s mouth is at his ear and one of Noiz’s legs is canted over Koujaku’s shoulder, spreading him obscenely wide.

 

“You’re fucking crazy,” and Koujaku, Noiz is pleased to note, sounds as close to losing it as Noiz feels. “But _fuck you_ if you think I’m enough of a bastard to do it without prep.”

 

And Noiz struggles, he _does,_ the blackness in his chest fanning out to every limb, making him thrash and flail when he hasn’t a hope of escaping from under Koujaku’s body weight, but, eventually, there’s that stretching feeling at his entrance, and he bares his teeth at Koujaku, trying to wrench his leg free.

 

“Go _fuck_ yourself.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Koujaku refuses to relinquish the leg he has in his grasp, kissing up it with deceptive softness before— _ah_ —the teeth come out and he _bites._ “I’m not going to be gentle about it.”

 

And _fuck_ that visual of Koujaku’s dark hair, loose and falling in disarray past his shoulders, eyes fiery, is so unfairly _sexy_ that Noiz has to give up struggling and turn his head to the side before he does anything embarrassing. The tell-tale twitch of his cock, though, directly in Koujaku’s line of sight, gives it away anyway. Koujaku just chuckles, dark, and grinds his erection up against Noiz’s ass as he adds another finger.

 

“Just fucking hurry it up,” Noiz snaps, and revels in the flash of annoyance in Koujaku’s eyes as he shuts him up with a kiss, stretching him wider—was that another finger?—crooking them, and _oh._

 

Noiz’s body arches, chasing that elusive pulse of pleasure, willing Koujaku to do it again by insistently rutting up into him until he _does_ and—and Noiz thinks his resultant moan is the loudest he’s been this entire encounter.

 

 _“Just fuck me,”_ he breathes out when Koujaku disengages their mouths, and although he turns his head to the side and clenches his eyes shut and he can’t even see Koujaku’s face, it sounds an awful lot like a prayer. “Fucking—fuck me until I can’t fucking _walk.”_

A sharp intake of breath is his only warning before his world is flipping upside down as Koujaku turns him onto his stomach, iron grip full of dark intention—and there are a few seconds of that delicious stretch, of the feeling of being split that is the most he’ll ever get—and then Koujaku is _inside him._

And he’s moving.

 

It hardly takes him any time to build up a momentum—a testament to how often he’s done this, Noiz supposes. But then Koujaku’s hands are holding his down against the mattress as his hips snap faster and Noiz forgets to suppose.

 

He is vaguely aware that his mouth is open, neglecting to filter out the gasps that leave him every time the piercings at his dick snag against the bedding, the moans that force themselves ut of him every time Koujaku hits _there._

 

“Ah, _ah—fuck_ old man, fuck me, _fuck me.”_

He doesn’t know what he’s saying any more, whether the litany of words leaving his mouth comes out even vaguely coherent. All he knows is that it spurs Koujaku on, drives him to piston in harder, tug at the piercings on his nape with his teeth, even take one hand away from where it’s restraining Noiz and use it to squeeze roughly at his dick.

 

“. . . I can’t.”

 

“Hm?”

 

It takes Noiz a moment to figure out that Koujaku spoke, and another to register what he actually said. “Can’t what? Fuck— _ah_ —fuck me at this pace? Well, can’t say I didn’t— _nnnh—_ expect it, but—,”

 

“I can’t pretend you’re Aoba.” Koujaku cuts him off with one simple statement, yanking at his hafda to make him cry out. “You’re mouthy, and uncooperative, and you piss me the _fuck_ off. It would be doing him a disservice.”

 

“So, in other words, it’s _me_ you’re hard for right now, old man? How very flatter— _nh!”_

Noiz lifts his hips up to meet Koujaku’s on every brutal thrust, even as he continues to rile him up. His hips stutter and the end of his sentence cuts off in a choked moan when Koujaku aims a sharp twist to his nipple piercing in retaliation.

 

He doesn’t let up. Neither of them do.

 

“It would _kill_ your mother if she could see you right now.”

 

He knows it’s a low blow, but Koujaku just lets the chinks in his armor show through too clearly. And the fleeting twisted, pained  expression that flashes across Koujaku’s face, the way he shoves Noiz’s head into the mattress, pushes his hips up so that his back arches in an obscene curve is worth it, proves to Noiz he isn’t just imagining things.

 

Not that he has the wherewithal to do so, anyway. The new position Koujaku has forced him into is sending those tendrils of pleasure down his spine every time he thrusts in, making them pool in the pit of his stomach, and his hips are torn between fucking down into the mattress, and fucking up into the rhythm of Koujaku’s hips.

 

“Fucking _hell,_ old man—,” he realizes he’s gasping too late to stop it. “Make me _come,_ fucking _make me come.”_

And it’s a testament to how far gone Koujaku is that he doesn’t even bristle at Noiz’s outright demand, just leans down to whisper in his ear like he’s with one of his women. “What do you want me to do?”

 

“Touch my cock,” Noiz breathes out without even thinking.  “Just— _touch me,_ fuck.”

 

And then everything dissolves and Koujaku is licking at the seam of his mouth, pulling sloppy and quick over his cock, his piercings. And all Noiz can hear are the lewd sounds of skin slapping skin and Koujaku’s low, gravelly moans in his ear as he fucks into him without finesse now, relying on nothing more than primal instinct to get them both to completion. Noiz can’t see his eyes, but he doubts there is a trace of the original crimson that has not been replaces by the black of his dilated pupils.

 

And he’s moaning, too, Noiz realizes, his _ah ah ahhhhhs_ rising in pitch and volume, only occasionally muffled by Koujaku’s mouth as he skirts the edge.

 

“Fuck— _ungh—_ ah, _Koujaku_ I’m—!”

 

Another bite to his shoulder, drawing blood, another vicious tug to his apadravya, and he’s arching up, a muffled scream leaving his throat as his vision flashes a brilliant white and his release spurts out of him, soiling the sheets underneath.

 

It’s only when he’s coming down, panting, that he registers Koujaku pulsing hard inside him, _feels_ it is he sinks his teeth anew into the wound on his shoulder, drives in as deep as he can, and shudders violently so that Noiz can feel every throb of his dick. He only realizes Koujaku’s come when he goes limp on top of him.

 

They stay like that for a moment, catch their breaths before Noiz shoves Koujaku off of him, grimacing when he stands up and cum splatters the floor. He cleans himself up best as he can with the pocket handkerchief he’s never quite managed to kick the habit of carrying, and dresses mechanically, in complete silence. It’s not until he glances over at Koujaku, face-down on the bed, that his voice betrays him.

 

“. . . Woah.”

 

Because, sure, the artwork on Koujaku’s front is sexy. Captivating, even. But— _fuck—_ his _back._

 

Noiz isn’t used to complimenting things, but even he can see the beauty of the crimson peonies blooming across Koujaku’s back for what it is. The flowers seem _alive,_ somehow, like they would undulate under Noiz’s touch with the same fluid grace that characterizes Koujaku.

 

Like they can swallow Noiz up if he isn’t careful.

 

He only realizes he’s reaching out a hand to touch them when it is two inches away from Koujaku’s back.

 

“. . . Don’t.”

 

Koujaku’s voice makes Noiz’s hand freeze up before he quickly withdraws it, annoyed that the older man had caught on, more so that he’d given over to instinct in the first place. He pulls his beanie over his head and looks Koujaku over one more time.

 

And then he opens the door and walks out.

 

And maybe it’s the fact that the black tar has adhered more firmly than ever in his chest, or maybe it’s the fact that he drives his fist into a brick wall of the way out to vent a frustration he cannot put into words, but something tells him that _nothing_ about this had been a good idea.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is such a self-indulgent piece of trash I'm sorry.


End file.
